His Best Friend
by TwilighterRenthead
Summary: When Edward leaves Bella in Forks and heads to Chicago, he finds the one person he needs most at the time he needs her most. Edward/OC friendship. Discontinued...
1. Chapter 1

His Best Friend

His POV:

Chicago, 2006:

I looked up at the white Illinois sky. _**Shoot**_, I thought, as large, fat white flakes fell onto my face and settled into my exaggeratedly long eyelashes. Snow had never been my favorite type of weather. _**But then again, snow and ice had brought**_ _**you closer to**_ – _**no, don't think about her,**_ _**Edward, **_I told myself.

I needed to get inside somewhere. The cold didn't bother me, but I would have drawn too much attention to myself standing out alone in the snow. I looked around. The closest building I saw was a small, nearly empty antique shop.

The snow was falling heavier now, and I was walking faster than I probably should have. _**I need her, **_I thought as I walked. _**More than I need anything else. **_I closed my eyes. I saw her face. The most beautiful face I had ever known. More beautiful even than Rosalie.

I pulled on the handle of the door of the antique shop and walked fat, sweaty, red-faced old man stood behind the counter was helping a small, fair-skinned brunette look at an old photograph. It was of three teenagers.

"Now this is a fine piece from 1918, and—," the old man began.

"Just give it to me," the young woman cut him off. _**Just give me the picture, you old fool, **_she thought.

Either there was a personal connection between her and the photo, or she was a very avid collector. _**Humans**_**, **I grimaced. _**So fickle, so **__**believing**_.

But then the heater kicked on. Her scent was blown across the room to. I realized what she was. She seemed to suddenly be aware of me, too.

She turned to face me. Recognition dawned slightly on her face. But that wasn't what shocked me.

It was her eyes.

Her POV:

"That one," I said, pointing at a picture from 1918 in the case. It was of three teenagers: a 15-year-old girl, a 17-year-old girl, and a 17-year-old-boy. Cornelia Walker, 15; Mary-Anne Walker, 17; and (my heart sank) Edward Masen, 17.

I remembered that day so clearly: June 20th 1918. Just a few months before he would die. My birthday. His birthday. Officially 15 and 17. It was agreed that our parents would take us together to have our pictures taken. It was a tradition in each family to have photos taken on birthdays. It was mine and Edward's birthday that day. We'd let my older sister, Mary-Anne, come along.

We had four pictures taken: one of me, one of Edward, one of Edward and I together, and one of Mary-Anne, Edward, and I.

"Lady? 'Ey lady, you wanna see this picture 'er not?" aroused me from my reminisce.

"Oh, yes. Here I'll take that," I extended my hand.

"Sorry, can't letcha do that."

"Why?"

"Yer not trained to handle these things!"

"Whatever. How much?"

"400"

I took my money out of my purse and handed him $400. I was vaguely aware of the door opening and someone coming in.

"Now this fine piece is from 1918, and--,"

"Just give it to me," I snapped.

The last thing I wanted was to hear my own history. He gave me a dirty look and handed me my photo. A whirring told me the heater had turned itself on. I turned to leave, and he stood there.

Eyes just like mine.


	2. Chapter 2

This isn't mine! It belongs to the lovely Stephenie Meyer. Holy crap, I just found out I had 666 words in my last chapter! And a visitor from Singapore! Reviews are very nice...

His POV

She was vaguely familiar. The shape of her face, the shade of her hair. But her eyes were what startled me. They were gold, like mine and my family's. We didn't know that there were any others like us besides Tanya's family in Denali. But they were also strange, seemingly studded with sapphires. Flecked with their original blue.

If she was a human and had brown eyes... _**Damn it, Edward! She's better off without you. You left **__**for**__** her. This pain is **__**for**__** her.**_

_**Edward. Of course....**_ Her mind wandered back to the picture. The photo was of _**me**_. But there were two other people in it with me. It was Mary-Anne Walker and.... _**Don't think about her either. She's been dead for almost 90 years, but you don't need another depressant in your life,**_ I reprimanded myself.

_**Don't be an idiot, **_she told herself. _**You know he's dead. He died back in 1918 with Edward and Elizabeth and dad. But then again, he's not buried with him.... Because they burned him, along with everyone else who caught it.... But Dr. Cullen.... Wouldn't do that to him.... Just GO!!**_

The female approached me carefully.

"Edward?' she said hesitantly. I couldn't believe it.  
"Coranelia?" I asked back, afraid that she was hallucination, that I had gone crazy without Bella. I just couldn't believe it.

"Oh!" she gasped, running toward me, only a bit too fast. She hugged me, sobbing dryly. I held her tightly to my chest, and for a brief moment, I could afford to be stoic.

Her POV:

It couldn't be him. It just couldn't. He was dead. Or so I thought for 88 years. I had flashbacks of human life. I remembered a few obscure things, some not so obscure. Like the time Edward and I played tag in the front yard of Edward's house, and the time we went to go get sodas and got stuck under an awning. But also the time my family and I were in a boating accident when I was five in 1908 and we were on _**Lusitania**_ in 1915 (I was almost 12). I had a knack for getting into accidents. Life without Edward had been, well, empty. He was my best friend, nothing more. No, not best friend, more than my best friend. My brother. My family and I had moved to Chicago from Denver in 1915, next door to my father's coworker, Edward Masen, his wife, Elizabeth, and their son, Edward Jr. Edward was two years older than me. We went to one of the first co-ed schools in Illinois and became fast friends.

I argued with myself over whether or not this was Edward. I finally decided to see.

"Edward?" I asked, cocking my head.

"Cornelia?" He looked incredulous.

"Oh!" I gasped, running forward, maybe a little too fast, and hugged him. I cried dryly and he held me against his chest. And for the first time since, well, a different he had died 25 years ago, I was happy. Sometimes there really are lights in dark places, places where all other lights go out.


	3. Chapter 3

His POV:

As I held her, she seemed to stiffen, her mood seeming to shift as suddenly as mine sometimes does. She looked up at me with her exotic eyes. They were concerned.

"What?" I asked.

"You had to leave someone behind," she stated.

"No I didn't," I lied, an electric pain stabbing my long dormant heart.

"Yes you did. Your family." I was about to say yes, when she spoke again, pain in both her voice and eyes. " And the girl you love. Bad choice," she murmured. I saw in her head a pair of other vampires, a male telling her to run, her refusing to leave him, a column of smoke, dark and oily. I recognized the other vampires at once: James and Victoria. My poor friend, she hadn't won her battle with them, as I had.

I leaned down and murmured in her ear. I was internally growling.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

She looked at me like she had never seen me before.

"Step outside with me. I'll tell you there." I looked pointedly at the man behind the counter.

"We'll go to my apartment. It's safe there. Tell me where you've been these past, er, eight years."

I took her hand and led her outside, where, with her free hand, she hailed a cab.

"922 5th Avenue," she informed the driver.

And as he pulled away our entire pasts were laid out for the other to see.

Her POV:

As he hugged me, I felt his trouble. That was my gift. I could tell what was wrong with people. Just like I was able to solve emotional riddles as a human. He had left behind his family. And the one he loved. I couldn't believe him. He had always been a bit of a romantic, and to have left her while still loving her. Our kind don't fall out of love.

"You left someone behind," I told him.

"No, I didn't," he said, obviously lying.

"Yes, you did. You're family. And the girl you love. Bad choice."

Images of that day 25 years ago flashed through my mind: his voice telling me to run, the column of smoke, their faces; the faces of the ones who killed him. I swore to myself that if I ever met them again, I would kill one of them. Just one, so the other knew how I felt.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Edward's soft voice whispered in my ear.

I looked up at him, incredulous. How did he know? Was he like me and could tell what was wrong with people, or was it something else?

"Step outside with me," he said, glancing at the man behind the counter. "We'll talk there." He looked like he had so much to tell me.

"We'll go to my apartment. It's safe there," I answered automatically. "Tell me where you've been these last, er, eight years."

He took my hand and led me outside. I hailed a cab as we walked. I gave the cabby my address and we headed off, our entire pasts out.


End file.
